Wounded
by Aenisses Thai
Summary: After the battle in the Imperial Gardens of Kutou...who is the most deeply wounded? Tamahome's post kodoku reflections on Tasuki. Complete.
1. Chapter One

**WOUNDED by Aenisses Thai**

All rights to Fushigi Yuugi belong to Yuu Watase, Shogakukan Shojo Comics, TV Tokyo, Studio Pierrot, and Pioneer Video.

* * *

******Chapter One.**

The first thing I notice is the rain. It flies straight into my face from a churning gray mass, at times whipped into sheets by gusts of wind. I realize I'm lying on the ground, my chin tilted toward the sky, my body numb from the chest down. Blinking to clear my blurred vision, I open my mouth, letting the rain wash away the bitter taste of blood.

The next thing I see is her face, her eyes like green jewels under a sea of tears. _You can kill me if you need to; just don't die! _she weeps.

I frown, confused. Kill her? Why would I kill her? Doesn't she know she holds my heart? I struggle to remember what I've done to hurt her, and dim memories return to me. A meeting place—a broken promise.

_I'm sorry, _I whisper as the chill of the ground spreads throughout my body. _I promised to meet you when the moon had risen, but I was late._

_It's all right,_ she sobs, _the moon has just now risen._

Her tears mingle with the rain, and I know she's lying; I can still see the gray afternoon light around the darkness creeping into the corners of my eyes. _I love you,_ I mouth as the darkness closes in.

Suddenly, there is a flurry of movement: a tall man kneels beside me, his palm glowing with a scarlet light. It warms and strengthens me—and my mind clears as life flows back into my body. Miaka flings herself on me, weeping with joy, as others rush into my line of sight. Chichiri with his smiling mask. Nuriko, purple eyes filled with tears but wearing a grin of triumph. Hotohori-sama, standing still for a moment before stooping by my side, dropping his red-streaked sword to the ground. _I_ _am glad to have you back with us,_ he says, his words welcoming but constrained.

Home. Somehow I've escaped from Kutou and found my way home.

There are strangers here, strangers I feel I should know. The tall man who kneels beside me, checking my pulse with a healer's air. The youth wearing a headband and a frightened expression, nervously clutching a flute.

My friends pull me up and surround me, congratulating me as if I've done something wonderful. I can't help smiling back at them. Can I really mean that much to them—to _all _of them, not just Miaka?

Movement a few paces away catches my eye. There's someone else there—someone who leans heavily on a staff for support. At first I take him for an old man, but his hair is dark red instead of gray, its dripping strands sweeping across the white bandages that wrap around his head and over one eye. He's covered in dressings, even his legs trailing dirty gray strips of material in the puddles. Other than the bandages, he wears only a thin robe, its folds dark and dripping with rainwater.

He looks as out of place as a beggar at an Imperial feast.

Suddenly he looks up, and I catch my breath at the pain and betrayal in his one golden eye. Why is he looking at me that way? It takes another moment before I realize he's looking at everyone _except_ me: glaring at Miaka with her arms wrapped around me, the others with their hands reaching out to touch me. Everyone is so focused on me that no one else notices him.

Nuriko blocks my line of vision, leaning in for a playful kiss on my cheek. I laugh and push him away and give Miaka a quick hug. By the time I have the chance to look up again, the sullen, lonely figure is gone—and all I see in his place are sweeping curtains of rain.

_Who?_ I begin to ask, but they lift me up and carry me away to the inner palace, already talking about celebrations and strategies and plans.

* * *

Hours later, I walk quickly along the outer corridors of the palace, absently noting the sky has cleared enough to show the first dim stars of night. I've given my report and the Universe of the Four Gods to Chichiri and Hotohori, and now I'm impatient to change out of the black silk clothes that were a gift from Yui._  
_

_Yui,_ I think, anger and pity combined in my breast. _How could you betray Miaka that way?_ My steps falter. How could _I_ betray Miaka—and all the rest? Yes, there was the kodoku, but still...

I shudder, suddenly feeling tainted. Although it felt good to wipe that smirk off Nakago's face when I threw the earring back at him, I still hated the way his cold blue eyes had rested on me, calm and possessive, as if I were some plaything that he could punish or manipulate at will. _Someday,_ I promise myself, punching my fist into the opposite palm. _Someday I won't need Chichiri's shield when I confront that bastard._

A muffled sob reaches my ears, making me start in surprise. I'm in the western wing of the palace, near the unoccupied guest suites. I didn't expect anyone to be here, yet there's a low, pain-filled moan coming from behind one of the doors, followed by another sob. _Someone's in trouble, _I think to myself, moving to the door of the nearby suite. My hand is already on the handle when it's caught and held in a delicate yet inhumanly strong grip.

I look down into Nuriko's frowning eyes. He holds a finger to his lips and shakes his head, leading me away from the door. Once safely around the corner, he drops my hand and turns to face me.

"Best to leave him alone, Tama-chan. He hates to be seen when he's like this; pitches a fit if anyone walks in on him, which naturally makes his condition worse. And the way you're dressed right now, you're bound to send him into a raging frenzy if you walk through that door."

My face must look as blank as my mind, because Nuriko moves right up next to me, peering into my eyes in the dim twilight.

"You don't remember, do you." It's not a question.

I shake my head, lost. "What do my clothes have to do with this?"

He hesitates, his gaze flicking from my face back to the corridor behind me. Finally he laughs lightly, his insincere concubine's laugh. "He hates the color black, that's all. Especially when he's in a mood. Listen, Tama-chan, you're late for—"

I stop him with a firm grip on his forearm, letting him know I'm not buying into his act. He could easily shake me off—or slam me into the nearest wall for that matter—but instead he sighs, dropping the pretense.

"Tamahome…it's a complicated situation, and I'm not the right person to fill you in, since I wasn't there. Why don't you ask Miaka? She's been pacing the grounds ever since Chichiri transported you back to Kutou, and now... She asked me to find you and tell you she's waiting on the bridge by the ornamental pond."

I release him, guilt flooding through me at the thought of causing Miaka any more distress. "All right, I'll hurry there. But first I'm going to change out of this damned outfit."

I'm already pulling at the silk headband as I dash away, leaving Nuriko and the sobbing stranger far behind me.

* * *

I thought that I knew guilt before, but any pangs of remorse I might have felt in the past are nothing compared to the waves of shame and humiliation that now wash over me. If anyone else were telling me these things, I would call them a liar—but her eyes shine with truth, innocently unaware of the effect of her words.

"I attacked the Emperor in his own palace," I repeat numbly. Why didn't Chichiri and Hotohori _tell_ me about this? Why did they only tell me about my brainwashed determination to kill Miaka?

Probably because they knew that the complete truth would knock me stupid, and they needed me to have my wits when I traveled back to Kutou to retrieve the scroll. Smart decision on their part, since I now seem to be incapable of the simplest task, like closing my dropped jaw.

Miaka is so happy to have me back at the palace that she doesn't notice my agitation. She goes on chattering, blissfully certain that everyone in the world is as naïve and forgiving as her. "Don't worry, Tamahome; no one blames you. Hotohori isn't angry at you for pulling a sword on him, any more than I'm angry at you for tearing up your love letter to me or breaking my left arm."

I flinch under each new blow, my mouth opening and closing like a fish drowning in open air. How can she stand to even look at me? How can _any_ of them stand to be around me, after all that I've done?

I guess I must've covered my face with my hands, because I feel her pulling at my fingers, trying to get me to look up. Her brow is creased above worried green eyes. "Tamahome, don't be upset. I told you I don't blame you for any of it. It was the kodoku that was responsible for the things you did to me and Hotohori…and oh yes, Tasuki. You're not the kind of man to beat a fellow warrior to the point of death."

Breathe in, Tamahome. Now out again. Come on, get some air into your body so that your brain will stop screaming, and start thinking again. Ask the question. Just put the words together and ask.

"I beat…a fellow Suzaku warrior…to _death?_"

Now she looks as horrified as I feel. "No, _no,_ Tamahome—he's not dead! At the last minute, Chiriko broke the shield, and Chichiri was able to…" She stops, finally aware there's little comfort in knowing the only thing that kept me from killing a brother warrior was Chichiri.

It feels as though all the blood in my body has fallen to my feet, so that they're heavy and clumsy and unable to support my weight. I lean against the rails of the bridge, my mind numbly trying to do simple math. Hotohori, Chichiri, Nuriko, and me. The original four Suzaku warriors. The tall healer, Mitsukake. Five. Chiriko, the boy with the flute. Six.

Who is the seventh? Why can't I remember him?

Suddenly, brief images, little pieces of memory, flash through my mind. Bright red hair. Pointed teeth bared in a snarl of rage. Slanted golden eyes—gold eyes.

The wounded man.

The angry man. The man who hates the sight of me.

Another memory surfaces. "_Best to leave him alone, Tama-chan…you're bound to send him into a raging frenzy if you walk through that door."_

The stranger who sobs in pain, alone behind closed doors.

Miaka keeps talking over my obvious distraction, trying to get me to respond to her cheerful plans with more than absent sounds of agreement. But she's never one to give up easily or to stop looking on the bright side of things. She places a hand on my arm in a comforting way. "Tamahome, everything's going to be wonderful now that you've come home! We're going to summon Suzaku and save Konan—and you and I will be together forever. _Everyone's_ going to be happy...and Tasuki will get over his problems with you, you'll see. He can't carry a grudge forever. You two will end up being the best of friends; I just know it!"

Shock finally gets me to focus on her. Can she possibly be that insensitive or…? No, she's not self-centered. She's just naïve, believing the world is kind and made up of people who are as soft and silly as she is. No, not silly; _well-meaning_ is what I meant. Her innocent belief in the goodness of human nature is what I love about her, right?

All the same, I suddenly feel the need to get away from her and go somewhere to do…I don't know what. But I need a quiet place to think. So I point out that it's getting late, and the next few days are going to be busy as we prepare for the summoning. I kiss her on top of her head and wish her a warm good night.

* * *

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my steps have led me back to this room. After all, the only thing I've been thinking about as I've paced around the palace grounds for the past half-hour is what might be happening behind this door.

I stand undecided, trying to think of what to say. _Hi, remember me, the guy who beat you to a pulp? I just want to know how you're doing._

Ugh. Try again. _You know, we were never properly introduced. My name is Tamahome and you must be…_

I'm getting more stupid by the second. I almost turn and run, hoping the next day will gift me with some intelligence—when I hear another moan of pain. But this one is different, rising in intensity until it culminates in an almost angry shout.

I can't walk away from him. I have to do _something_ for him, even if it's as simple as getting him a cup of water.

Reaching out, I grasp the door handle, only to feel it already turning in my hand. I'm pulled off balance as the door begins to open inward.

Someone is coming out.

* * *

_To be continued…_

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Aenisses 9-Feb-2005


	2. Chapter Two

All rights to Fushigi Yuugi belong to Yuu Watase, Shogakukan Shojo Comics, TV Tokyo, Studio Pierrot, and Pioneer Video.

* * *

**Chapter Two.**

As I'm pulled off balance by the opening door, my body instinctively goes into martial arts mode, merging with the direction of the force. But since plunging into and knocking down the person on the other side of the door isn't exactly the friendly gesture I had in mind, I release the door handle and spin in mid-air, landing in a defensive position. I bend my knees to drop my center, and raise my hand in a partial block—

Only to confront a broad expanse of chest where I expected to see someone's face. My eyes travel upward, confused, to meet an equally quizzical blue gaze.

"Tamahome," rumbles a deep, gentle voice. "Can I help you?"

I straighten quickly, acting as if I _meant_ to fall into the room, and hoping that I don't look half as stupid as I feel.

"Mitsukake," I mumble, stalling for time while waiting for my brain to make an appearance.

"Yes, that's me," he says patiently.

Suddenly his presence in that room clicks into my sluggish thought processes. Mitsukake, the healer. "You're a doctor, right?"

"Yes, that's what I do. Don't you remember this afternoon?" His gaze sharpens, and he shoots a look of real concern at me. "Are you all right, Tamahome? Did something happen in Kutou?"

Oh, great, now I've got him thinking that Nakago blasted me in the head with one of his ki attacks. And my gods-cursed brain refuses to jump in and relieve him of that worry.

"Uh, no, nothing happened. I mean, I got the Universe of the Four Gods scroll back and all, but nothing bad happened to me. I'm fine."

"I'm glad to hear it, " he replies gravely.

There is another moment of silence as we size each other up.

"Tamahome."

"Yeah?"

"You're blocking my way out of the room. Is there something you want from me?"

Okay, it's pretty obvious that I'm not going to get any help from my truant gray matter, so I have nothing to fall back on but the truth. I gesture helplessly at the room behind him.

"I just found out that I…that he…. How is he?"

I'm answered by an enraged shout from behind the ornate screen shielding the back half of the room. "Goddamn it, you asshole, are ya tryin' ta freeze me ta death or _what?_ Do ya gotta open _every_ fuckin' window in the stronghold?"

Mitsukake reaches out a long arm and drags me the rest of the way into the room, slamming the door shut behind me. "It's all right, Tasuki. I've closed the windows!"

"About fuckin' time, too, ya stupid-ass kid! An' how many times do I gotta tell ya that I'm not Tasuki! I'm _Genrou_—nobody's s'posed ta know about Tasuki!" His voice subsides into a groan, accompanied by low curses under his breath.

My eyes must be as wide as saucers, because Mitsukake gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he draws me aside. "I'm sorry about this, Tamahome, but Tasuki has taken a slight turn for the worse tonight. He's running a high fever at the moment, and he seems to think that he's back in his bandit stronghold." His eyes darken. "I told him not to go out in the rain today—but when does he ever listen to me?" He pauses, as he and I simultaneously realize that he's talking to the reason Tasuki ventured out.

To stop me. From killing Miaka.

I'm beginning to think that guilt is going to be my permanent state of mind.

I struggle to change the subject. "Is it…is it the fever that makes him curse like that?"

Mitsukake gives a sudden smile. "No, the fever is actually making him more civil. If he were in his right mind, you'd hear him calling me a 'fucking quack' and accusing me of trying to kill him."

I guess I look a little shocked, because Mitsukake smiles again. Don't get me wrong; I'm not a prude about language or anything. I'm a regular guy like anyone else. But Mother always taught me that having humble beginnings didn't mean that you had to talk like you were lower class. She said that people judged you on how you spoke—and seeing as I was destined to be one of Suzaku's warriors, it was important that I honor my god by speaking properly.

It never occurred to me, especially after meeting Hotohori-sama, Nuriko, and Chichiri, that one of Suzaku's warriors could curse harshly enough to blister the lacquer from the enameled walls.

"Fuckin' _hell, _ya dumbshit kid, how long are ya gonna make me wait for the goddamn _sake?"_

Mitsukake rolls his eyes but replies with mocking respect. "Right away, Boss; I'm going now."

I'm shocked for the second time. "You're not _really_…" I whisper.

Mitsukake fixes me with a patient look, one that he must keep on hand for his slower-witted seishi partners. "Of course not. I need to make a special infusion that will hopefully bring this fever down. Luckily, in the state he's in now, I could feed him bathwater and he would believe that he's getting drunk."

Suddenly he looks keenly at me, as if he's trying to read my mind or see into my soul or something like that. I fidget under the sharp regard.

At last he releases me, a look of satisfaction passing across his face. "Yes, there is no trace of the kodoku left. Your eyes look perfectly clear."

Oh, is that what he was doing? Fine, at least _his _mind is at ease. As for me—well, this is obviously a wasted trip, since Tasuki isn't in any condition to talk. Not rationally, anyway. I turn to make my escape, but I'm stopped by a very large hand on my elbow.

"Wait, Tamahome. Could you do a favor for me and keep an eye on Tasuki until I return? I'm afraid that it's going to take me some time to gather the ingredients and brew them down. I don't need you to talk with him; just stay here and listen, and let me know if he seems to be getting any worse."

Oh_, shit!_ This is _not_ where I want to be at all, trapped in a room with a delirious, raving bandit who hates me! It's pointless, anyway, because…

"How am I supposed to tell you anything if I don't know where you are?"

"Well, if the pain starts getting unbearable, or if he seems to be having a seizure, just call for Chichiri in your mind. He'll pop right over, and I know that he can find me immediately, even if I'm between my office and the Imperial kitchens."

I keep looking for a way out. "Why don't you just heal him with your seishi power?"

Mitsukake gives me another one of his looks. "I can only use that power once each day."

Oh. And he already used it today.

On me.

Whether intentionally or not, the healer has pinned me in place with a skill that rivals that of my martial arts sifu. I'm forced to admire his subtle maneuver. Here I am—and here I will remain, until he decides to release me.

Sifu taught me that it's as important to know how to lose as to win. So I bow politely and gesture Mitsukake out the door.

* * *

All the same, knowing how to lose is just knowing how to put a good face on losing. It doesn't really make you feel any better. I'm not happy, and I'm ashamed to say that I feel a sudden wave of self-pity. I mean, I was only trying to do the right thing: maybe exchange an apology or two, try to get a new start from our disastrous first meeting. I didn't ask to be _stuck_ here with a raving lunatic.

And hey, it's not like the past few weeks have been a walk in the park for _me,_ either. _I_ was the one who was trapped in Kutou as a hostage. _I_ was the one who Nakago got his sadistic kicks from torturing and manipulating. Why should I carry around this burden of guilt, as if I asked for _any_ of this to happen? I mean, who's suffered from this whole fiasco more than me?

I'm answered by a low, misery-filled moan from behind the screen. "Oh fuck," he chokes. "Why don't it ever fuckin' _stop?_ I don't think I can take any more…" And his voice keens in a low wail that he keeps soft and under his breath, like a beaten child afraid of being overheard as he cries himself to sleep.

Before I know it, I'm moving toward the screen, leaving my shame and self-pity behind me. I don't know what I can do, but I have to do something.

It seems that this whole night is destined to be a series of shocks. He looks so small, curled up in the Imperial guest bed; much smaller than when I saw him standing in the rain this afternoon. But then he kicks a long, bandaged leg out from under the covers, and I realize that he's at least as tall as me. It was the pain that curled him into the childlike position.

Then there's his hair blazing orange-gold, making him look as if his head is on fire. I barely have time to note the clean dressings before he opens his one unbandaged eye-and focuses it on me.

I stand frozen in place under that golden, fever-bright stare, hoping that I didn't just make things worse.

But he doesn't seem upset. In fact, he gives me the ghost of a pain-filled smile.

"So ya finally decided ta show up." His voice is hoarse but pleasant. "I been waitin' for ya."

I'm going to have to stop doing this, or my face will stick this way permanently. In a flash, I see a future tapestry of the Suzaku Seven. Nuriko the Strong, flexing his muscles. Chichiri the Wise, upraised hand casting a spell.

Tamahome the Idiot, eyes bugging out and mouth hanging open.

My profound musings are interrupted by a long hiss of pain from Tasuki, as he shudders in the grip of another spasm. I take advantage of his distraction to wipe the idiot gape off my face and try to appear normal. No, that might seem callous. Try to appear sympathetic. No, now I look like I'm sucking lemons. Ohhhh—

"Fuck it!"

My thoughts exactly—except I can see that the source of his frustration is physical instead of mental. He's managed to become entangled in the blankets and is trying to pull them around him with the use of one elbow, as the rest of his arm is bound in a sling.

Without thinking, I bend over him and quickly straighten the covers, carefully sliding them around his exposed leg.

He squints up at me, trying to focus but finally giving up with an irritated shrug. "Thanks, man." Another unfocused squint. "Hey, how come you're not wearin'...?" He gestures with his good hand, drawing a line across his forehead.

"My headband? I didn't like it. I… Um, it itched."

"Oh." He looks confused for a moment, then grimaces again in pain.

I decide to do something useful instead of just hovering like an idiot, so I pour a cup of water from the pitcher at his bedside and offer it to him. He reaches out shakily but can't seem to focus enough to grasp it. I pause only for a second before placing an arm around his back to support him, and pressing the cup to his lips.

He drinks deeply-and I'm not surprised, because I can feel the intense heat of his fever even through his robe. Exhausted by even this small effort, he leans back against the pillows and closes his eye.

Maybe he can sleep now. Maybe I should just…. I begin to draw away, but that eye snaps open the moment I try to move back.

"No." His voice is a hoarse whisper. "Please stay. I…I'm glad ya came." He closes his eye…and to my horror, I see a single tear leak out.

No. No, please don't do this. Yell at me, curse me, give me some of that rage you showed earlier—but just don't…

I can't stand this. How can I ever forgive myself, when he—

"Sorry," he chokes, then coughs to hide his embarrassment. "I didn't mean to, but it just hurts so fuckin' much."

"No, I'm the one who's sorry! It's all my fault." I swallow hard to stop the quiver in my voice.

"Your fault?" He opens his eye and fixes me with a frown. "What the fuck are ya talkin' about? None of this is your fault. Ya tried ta warn me…"

A glimmer of hope penetrates the dark cloud of guilt that surrounds me. Did I really? Did I have a moment of sanity in that whole insane battle, one moment when I cried out, 'Watch out!' or 'Run away!'? Maybe I wasn't the complete bastard that Nakago tried to shape me into; maybe I still had some remnant of myself left inside despite the kodoku.

I reach out and clasp his uninjured hand, out of gratitude for his forgiveness and for the self-respect he just returned to me. I feel so close to him at this moment—like a brother. A seishi brother.

"You're going to be okay," I whisper softly.

We're both going to be okay.

"Damn straight, aniki!" He fixes that golden gaze on me with feverish intensity. "Once I heal up, I'm goin' back there, even though I don't belong. I'm goin' back fer only one reason—an' you can come along, so's you can watch.

"You can watch me kick the ass of that scumshit fuck-bastard Tama-_fuckin'-_home!"

* * *

It takes me barely two seconds to blink my eyes back into their sockets and close my open mouth. Now I'm ready for the brain to come back…yeah, here it is. It says— 

'What?'

And then—

_'WHAT?'_

Eventually, more coherent questions form in that damaged organ, questions like: Who does he think I am? Who does he think _he_ is? _Where_ does he think he is? The result of all of these jumbled thoughts is my eventual reply:

"Huh?"

Tasuki doesn't notice my feeble response, being too wrapped up in another pain spasm. Funny how I don't feel as bad about that as I did one minute ago.

But then my conscience whispers a reminder. All right, maybe I _did_ wish for some of his rage. But I never expected it to burn me into a smoking cinder.

And you know what? I don't need this. I don't need_ any_ of this. This whole venture is a stupid waste of time. Tasuki's about as likely to forgive me as he is to teach language arts to the Imperial concubines.

I'm outta here.

But that eye opens again as I pull back, fixing me with a look so lost and desolate that I catch my breath. "So yer leavin'?" he whispers, then forces a wry smile. "That's okay, aniki. I'm one miserable son-of-a-bitch to be around right now. I'll see ya later."

That's who he thinks I am—his aniki. His older brother. He thinks that his older brother is running out on him.

Before I know it, I'm leaning over him again, clasping his hand. "No, I'm not leaving. I'm just getting a chair so that I can sit down.

"I'll stay right here by you. We can talk."

* * *

_

* * *

_

_To be continued…_

Many thanks to the reviewers of Chapter One. Your thoughtful input is encouraging and inspiring.

For those who are confused by Tasuki's reference to an older brother: you're correct; he doesn't have one. But there is a person that he calls "aniki."

Aenisses 1-Mar-2005


	3. Chapter Three

All rights to Fushigi Yuugi belong to Yuu Watase, Shogakukan Shojo Comics, TV Tokyo, Studio Pierrot, and Pioneer Video.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Three.**

'It seemed like a good idea at the time.'

I expect that to be my epitaph. I can almost see it engraved on my tomb, next to the dates that mark a sadly shortened lifespan.

When I think about it, I can trace almost every one of my bad experiences to that course of thought. Especially since I joined up with the rest of the Suzaku seishi.

Just as an example: It seemed like a good idea to remark to a lost and naïve foreign girl that I'd really love to have one of the Emperor's crown jewels. It also seemed like a good idea to declare my feelings for her in her bedroom, which happened to be next door to the same Emperor who had become my romantic rival. Wait, let's not forget that brilliant plan to voluntarily hand myself over as a hostage to Kutou. Though to tell the truth, I believe my best moment was when, chained to a wall, I decided to backtalk Nakago while he was holding a whip.

You'd think that I would learn by now to hesitate before leaping into the next disastrous situation…but I guess I'm on a steep learning curve.

Because here I am, sitting next to a delirious bandit who hates me, pretending to be his aniki. Who I know nothing about. For that matter, "nothing" is a pretty good description of what I know about Tasuki himself, except for this:

I beat him nearly to death—and he'd like to return the favor.

I know this for a certainty because between gasps of pain, he's been detailing exactly how he's going to "kick the shit outta that scumshit bastard Tamahome." But the subject seems to be losing its luster even for him, because now he's switched over to a different train of thought. He's begun to speculate about my ancestry, starting with a theory about my grandfather and several domestic animals.

I wonder if Mitsukake would notice if there were a few new bruises on Tasuki along with the old ones.

Probably. Better change the subject.

"So, uh, Tasuki, how're you doing?"

That stops him in mid-rant, his unbandaged eye widening for a moment before it suddenly tilts up in mischief.

"How the fuck do ya _think_ I'm doin'? I'm ready ta dance, so tell the fuckin' band ta start playin', okay?"

I can't help it; I snigger at his smartass humor. He grins back at me, and just for a moment, it feels like we could almost be…

But the spell is broken as his mouth curves down in a bitter, self-mocking smirk.

"Yeah, an' you can cut the crap with callin' me 'Tasuki.' I get it already, aniki. I don't belong with 'em."

That last part is lost on me as I'm hit with a sudden wave of panic. Not call him "Tasuki?" What the hell am I _supposed_ to call him? I don't know his given name, damn it! But wait—there was that name he shouted at Mitsukake, something to do with a wolf, I think. Hidden Wolf or Spirit Wolf…

"Hakurou!" I blurt out.

Tasuki frowns at me. "What about the old boss?"

Damn it, wrong wolf! Time for a quick comeback, something clever and leading…

"Uhhhhhhh…"

"Nah, forget it, I know what yer gonna say already. So the boss wanted me ta _follow my destiny_ as a bigshot Suzaku warrior, so what? He's dead an' gone, an' all that hype about 'brotherhood of warriors' and kiss-my-ass 'glory an' honor' turned out ta be nothin' more than smoke an' shit. I shoulda stuck with you guys and let the rest of them glorified Suzaku warriors piss up a rope."

Now I'm more than a little angry. After all that Miaka went through—hell, after all that _I_ went through so that she could find the rest of the warriors—this guy has the nerve to bail out on us? What the hell kind of warrior is he? If he really didn't want anything to do with us, then…"Why did you join up with them in the first place?"

Okay, that came out a little more belligerent than I intended. He doesn't seem to notice, though, because he's caught up in another pain spasm. It passes soon enough, but afterwards, he just lies there, head turned to the side, staring off into space. Just when I decide that he must not have heard me, he licks his dry lips and draws in a breath.

"I been askin' myself that a lot over the past coupla days. I mean, I know you weren't keen on me leavin' the gang, but it seemed like somethin' I hadda do. An'…okay, I know yer gonna laugh yer ass off when I say this, but…I guess it was because of her. It's like I hadda protect her, or she needed me or somethin.' An' maybe I felt that way 'cause it's a seishi/miko thing, but…it seemed like somethin' more. Like when she said, 'Genrou, I'm gonna help you get yer position back as leader,' I thought it meant somethin' ta her, like…like_ I _mattered ta her. Me, Genrou, not _Suzaku Seishi Tasuki,_ 'cause she didn't even know I was Tasuki back then."

That fever-bright eye turns and meets mine, his mouth twisting up in a self-deprecating smirk. "Live an' learn, right, aniki?"

I'm sitting frozen in the chair next to him, my hands clenched into fists. Everything he's saying, everything he's feeling—those could be _my_ words. He's saying my thoughts of a few weeks ago, as if we're the same person or…in love with the same person.

"Are you in love with her?" The question bursts out of me, uncontrolled, urgent.

His eye flicks away from mine, and he's back to staring off into space. "Don't be an asshole, Kouji." His voice is very soft. "I'm a fuckhead bandit. What the fuck do I know about love?"

More than you'll admit, I think.

"Plus you know that I fuckin' hate girls. Lyin,' cheatin,' no-playin'-fair—" His voice stops abruptly. He turns away from me and presses his face into the pillow as if another spasm has seized him, but I didn't see the usual grimace that signals his pain. After a few moments, he rolls back. His eye is closed, but I can see that the lashes are damp.

"I hate this. I hate bein' like this, a fuckin' useless pain-in-the-ass." That golden eye opens, fixing me with a pleading look. "You know that I'm not like this, right, aniki? I can take whatever shit is dished out ta me. Not that easy ta take ol' Genrou down."

He lifts his lips in a frustrated snarl, exposing those weird pointed teeth.

"_He_ couldn't've done it either, not without… I coulda taken him. I coulda kicked that fucker's ass all the way ta Sairou, if only…"

"So why didn't you?" I interrupt, tired of his ego-driven bragging.

He looks at me, his expression surprised instead of angry. "I thought I told ya…. She wouldn't let me. There he was, swingin' his goddamn nanchakus and threatenin' her an' Chichiri an' me…an' she sent me out there ta face him unarmed."

I can feel it happening again, that punch of shock snatching the air from my lungs. Some faint voice in the distance warns me that I'm blowing my cover; that he's going to catch onto me because his aniki wouldn't be as completely stunned as I am right now.

But Tasuki doesn't act suspicious as he squints up at me, nodding at my openly horrified expression. "Yep, that's why I know I don't mean nothin' to her. If I hadda fight for her…. If I hadda give my life ta save hers, that's only right, 'cause I'm a seishi and that's what I'm supposed ta do.

"But she didn't ask me to die for her. She sent me out there ta die for _him."_

_

* * *

_

"No!"

The denial bursts from me, and I'm not even certain of exactly what I'm denying. Everything, I guess, since what he said is wrong on so many levels. Miaka is too kind and good to sacrifice anyone, let alone someone she thinks of as a friend, while I… I would never attack an unarmed man, regardless of what poison they poured into my brain!

There's only one explanation for his outrageous claim. He's a liar. He lies and exaggerates to soothe his wounded pride, because he can't stand the fact that I beat him fair and square. Well, okay, maybe not _fair_ because I obviously went too far in the beating, but there's no way that I fought dirty. That's not me, and I'll tell him _right now,_ just as soon as he spouts off with some bitching, whining excuse for—

"No?" he repeats softly, as if he's tasting the word. "'No,' as in 'I don't believe they had the nerve ta do that shit ta you'? Or 'No,' as in 'Yer fulla shit, an' yer lyin.'"

I blink, thrown off balance by his brutal directness. Not to mention the keen, intent gaze he fixes on my face. He _must_ be seeing me for who I really am; I can't possibly still be fooling him, unless… Yeah, his face is even more flushed than before, and his lips are dry and cracked. His fever must be rising in spite of Mitsukake's efforts.

I can't explain it, but somehow my rage diminishes in the face of his suffering. Maybe he's not really a liar. Maybe his condition is making him delusional. That's it! It _has_ to be; I was an idiot not to realize it right away! Just like he thinks I'm this "Kouji," he also imagines that the world, and even Miaka, is against him.

"So, aniki," he rasps, "what's it gonna be? Am I a liar or what?"

"I don't think you're lying. I'm just not sure that you're remembering things right. Um, you've been badly hurt, Genrou," I hedge, pleased to have gotten his name right—o_kay_, it was only after he shouted it at me about fifty times, but still… "and maybe some of this is, you know, imagined or…" I trail off in the force of his sudden fiery glare.

He doesn't explode with curses, though; the glare merely shades into something that looks like betrayal, and finally a reflective sadness.

"My imagination…yeah, wouldja like ta know some of the other things I imagined?"

He plunges ahead with his story, not waiting for my response…not caring what my response might be.

"I wasn't supposed ta go with them ta Kutou—with Miaka and Chichiri, I mean. But after all we'd been through together, somethin' told me that I hadda be there…an' I'm still not sure why. Maybe it was because this was the end of the road; ya know, get the rest of the Suzaku warriors together, then rescue _him_ from Nakago, then summon Suzaku. Maybe it was because all I kept hearing from Miaka and them little kids was how fuckin' _he-ro-ic _that shithead was, an' I wanted ta see for myself."

Now I'm confused. "What little kids?"

"_His_ little kids…I mean, his brothers and sisters. On our journey ta find Chiriko, we'd ended up stoppin' by his house, and it's a good thing we did, 'cause his dad was in bad shape an' Mitsukake cured him. What beats the shit outta me is tryin' ta figure out how those kids could have such a shithead for an older brother. I mean, _they_ were pretty cute, 'specially the little one, even if she was a girl. Maybe the mom had trouble givin' birth ta the first one, crunching his head on the way out."

As if to verify his words, a headache starts throbbing behind my eyes. He's driving me crazy with all the emotions he's provoking in me: a wondering joy at my father's cure along with humble realization of how much I owe Mitsukake; soft gratitude at Tasuki's flattering words about my siblings, conflicting with real anger at his continuous insults for me; all of this overlaid with a weird sense of resentment that he was there in _my_ house, intruding, uninvited…well, okay, maybe invited by my dad but certainly not by me.

I'm so caught up in these thoughts that I'm barely listening as he continues to grouse. I catch the words "Kutou," "Bitch Priestess of Seiryuu," "Nakago," along with Miaka's name, and "unfair dirty trick"…but suddenly, he grabs my attention with his changing tone.

His voice is dropping, turning soft and cold; snow instead of fire, drifting over me and freezing me in place..

"I was almost too late, ya know. When I caught up with her at that goddamn meetin' place, he was already there with her, an'…an' I didn't rush in right away, 'cause they were jus' standin' there, an' she was lookin' at him all hopeful an' shit, with her face lightin' up like it did every time she talked about him, an' for a second, I…I couldn't…. But then he held up some kinda paper and started tearin' it ta bits, an' I could see her face go white an' shocked, like he was tearin' up somethin' inside her--an' I just snapped. I was already movin' when I saw his arm go up, swingin' those damn nanchakus…an' I knew that I hadda move even faster, or else he was gonna kill her right in front of me!"

He swallows and takes a breath, and I hope he doesn't notice how badly my hands are trembling, how _all_ of me is trembling because this is _it,_ this is the truth that no one would talk about, not Chichiri or Hotohori or Miaka herself, and I'm dreading it because I know it's going to be bad, _real_ bad, because if not, then why wouldn't they _tell_ me? Here's the thing, though: I don't _want_ to hear, and something small and scared inside of me is begging, Please, Suzaku, don't let it be that bad, or at least make it that he's lying or just make him _shut up_, because I don't want to know! At the same time, there's this burning need inside me to get the whole truth—so now I'm not even sure what I'm praying for, and my head is whirling from all these stupid conflicting thoughts, and I clutch the arms of the chair, hoping that I'm not going to get sick all over the floor.

"Water." A dry, raspy cough. "Aniki, can I have some water?"

His voice grounds me, giving me something to hold onto. The room stops spinning, and I focus on small, essential tasks. Lift the pitcher, feeling the drops of moisture drip down its cool, glazed surface, then tip its mouth onto the rim of the porcelain cup and listen to the quiet burble of trickling water. Get an arm around him, around the heat burning through the back of his robe, rest his head against one shoulder, and place the cup against his parched lips.

He drinks and I breathe; long, deep breaths that slow my panicked heart. _It's okay,_ I tell myself. _It'll be okay. _I accept it now—whatever it is he's going to say—and I know that it'll be bad, but the important thing is that I didn't kill him. He's still alive; gasping a little as I draw the cup away, exhausted by the effort of sitting up and drinking, but…still alive, still breathing. Whatever else I might be, I'm not a murderer.

I feel a flash of gratitude for that simple truth, and without thinking, I lean my head against his, holding him close for a moment. Instead of pulling away, he moves deeper into me, and I inhale his scent: sweat and medicinal herbs and fever-heat, yet beneath all that is a scent that makes me think of sunshine and trees, something vital and alive.

I savor the peace; this fragile peace we share before the oncoming storm.

* * *

_

* * *

_

_To be continued…_

My apologies for my long silence; computer access time has been difficult to obtain. Thank you for your patience.

Many thanks, also, for the kind and supportive reviews. You inspire me.

Aenisses 2-May-2005


	4. Chapter Four

All rights to Fushigi Yuugi belong to Yuu Watase, Shogakukan Shojo Comics, TV Tokyo, Studio Pierrot, and Pioneer Video.

* * *

**Chapter Four.**

Sometimes it seems as if my life is one big hustle spent in pursuit of the next coin, the next job, the next short-lived piece of security for the people in my care. I swear that I scheme even in my sleep, dreaming up ways to look after my family and village and, oh yeah, a priestess from another world. I honestly can't remember the last time I let everything go and just let the world take care of itself.

Maybe that's why I'm reluctant to talk or move or do anything that might end this moment. I want to stay like this, quiet and still except for my heart beating in time with his, the rise and fall of my chest against his back. I want to stay here in the muted glow of lamplight, feeling nothing pressing or urgent; just the whisper of his hair against my cheek and our soft exhalations as we breathe the same air. I know that this can't last—and yet it still feels like a blow to my gut when it ends so abruptly.

It's the pain, of course. I become aware of it when his muscles begin to tense against me, the corner of his shoulder blade digging into my chest, the edge of his spine angling into my side. Suddenly he's sitting up, curling into himself as he lets out a frustrated hiss.

"Shhh," I plead stupidly. My hand reaches out to draw him back; no, I mean, _pat_ his back soothingly. But I pause, not wanting to accidentally hit a bruise. Did I bruise his back?

Is there any part of him I didn't bruise?

He pays no attention to my inept attempts at comfort, caught up in a more intense struggle. He huffs out little puffs of breath as his hands clutch convulsively at the coverlet beneath him, and I realize, with a sickening drop in my gut, that he's trying not to scream. But he keeps holding on, and at last the pain subsides. I know this because he uncurls and turns towards me, trying to force a self-conscious grin…until his eyes go wide with horror.

"You!"

He shoves away from me, his gaze focused and clear beneath his sweat-soaked bangs, his eyes snapping back and forth as he takes in everything: my clothes, my features, my wide and guilty eyes.

I don't know what idiotic impulse makes me lunge at him; I just want him to stay still, stay _here,_ just give me a chance to explain! Can I blame him for jumping back, trying to get into a defensive position? But his legs are tangled in the bedclothes, and the next thing I know, he's crashing to the floor, knocking over the side table. The lamp goes flying, followed by the sharp crackle of shattering glass and the instant wash of darkness.

It's pitch black in the room now, and my heart is pounding in my chest, the blood roaring in my ears. Is he alive, is he hurt, is he lying there _dead?_ Some rational part of my mind tells me to send out the mental call for Chichiri, but I'm worlds away from rational, the shame and the guilt overwhelming me so that all I want to do is fix it, make it better so that no one knows.

That must be how I've ended up creeping around the side of the bed, feeling my way through the darkness, reaching out for something, _anything_— I can't hear him at all, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that it's because my own ragged breathing is ringing in my ears. But then—

"…the _fuck?"_

I could almost cry with relief, but I settle for crawling over to him, reaching desperately around his prone form to pull him upright…. Ouch! Damn it! I pull the sharp object from my hand, sucking instinctively at the wound. He shifts slightly, his movement accompanied by the soft chime of falling glass.

"Wait, Genrou! Don't move!" I run my hands along the folds of his robe—yeah, I thought as much. He's covered in glass shards from the broken lamp. I brush them off frantically, ignoring the tiny stabs of their jagged edges, until I'm satisfied that he's clean.

"Mind tellin' me what the fuck's goin' on here?"

"You fell out of bed. Broke the lamp." I keep it simple, explaining nothing as I drag him towards me, trying to hoist him back onto the bed.

"Oh. That's all right then," he replies sarcastically. "Now get outta my way. I can get myself back into bed."

He pulls away from me, trying to brace his weight with his unsplinted leg, but suddenly it occurs to me that there might be a stray glass shard on the bed. So I dive across the mattress, frantically brushing my hands across the covers, forgetting that he's just about to—

Oof!

His back slams against mine, collapsing me beneath him and pressing my face into the bed. We both flail around, trying to get untangled, but the thing is, he's on top but has less mobility, so he can only rock back and forth a little. Meanwhile, I'm struggling wildly to lift my face enough to grab some air, but I can't get my arms back far enough to shove him off me, and I start to panic a little. He rocks forward, and I take advantage of his shift in position to push myself backwards, sliding out from beneath him, but too late, I realize that—

_Thunk!_

—my body was the one thing between his head and the headboard.

Silence.

I hold my breath, waiting.

"Aniki."

"Uh?"

"If this is yer idea of lookin' after me, I'd just as soon ya left me alone."

Another moment of silence, and then a snicker escapes from one of us and takes off from there, until we're both roaring with laughter. I'm kneeling next to him, resting my forehead against the bed as tears leak from my eyes. The mattress shakes with his own laughter, and all I can feel is a surge of relief. Aniki. He called me aniki, so we're back to where we were, and that terrifying moment of recognition seems to have been knocked out of him by his fall.

"Good thing it's dark," I hear him gasp.

"Why?"

"Because we prob'ly looked like a coupla assholes rollin' around on the bed. If any of the guys walked in on us, it woulda started a whole buncha rumors flyin'."

There's a brief pause, and even though I can't see his face, I can tell that he's about to deliver the punchline.

"They woulda thought that yer my bitch."

"The hell!" I shoot right back at him. "You're the one who looked like _my_ bitch!"

"Fuck that! Anyway, that's all shit. An' if they can't take a joke—"

"Fuck 'em!" I finish triumphantly, getting us going all over again.

Stupid, juvenile jokes. Dumb gags with male posturing. The sort of fooling around I'd always seen between the boys in my village but had never been included in. I don't know if I've ever been so mindlessly happy…or envious. Envious of his real aniki and the stupid, fun games they play. Envious for the first time of something other than material wealth.

I'm glad that it's dark, so that he can't see my face. On the other hand, he's invisible to me as well, and it's a little hard to keep an eye on someone you can't see. Guilt makes me push away from the bed and stand up.

"Where're ya goin'?"

It's funny, but for all that I can't physically see him, the darkness somehow helps me to read him better. I can hear the anxiety suppressed under his casual question, so I do my best to sound reassuring. "I'm just going to get a new lamp. I'll be back—"

"No." The casual tone is gone. "No, I don't want another lamp. It's better for me like this, in the dark. That way I don't hafta…look at myself."

I hesitate, caught by the strange note in his voice. "What's wrong? Does it hurt worse if you see your injuries?"

"Yeah." He gives a snort of disgust. "Hurts my pride more'n anything. Can't stand ta see myself lookin' like such a—"

"Warrior," I interrupt. "You look like a warrior."

"The word I was thinkin' was loser."

"No—" I begin, but he somehow finds my hand in the dark and grips it to silence me. I give in, and remain standing beside his bed.

"You remember the name we call them idiots that join the gang 'cause they think they're hardasses, and the first time there's a skirmish of any kind, they bust ranks and go runnin' to the front. Meat walls, right? Assholes whose only use is to be a human wall between the enemy's arrows and those of us who know somethin' about real fightin' strategy. Well, that's what I was the other night—a stupid meat wall between Miaka and whatever Nakago had to throw at her. No fuckin' brains in my head at all."

"You were trying to protect your priestess. There's no shame in that."

"Yeah, there is. 'Cause it was just like the old boss said: if yer gonna beat the enemy, ya gotta _think_ like the enemy. Otherwise, yer just handin' him yer sword to cut ya down. That's where I fucked up, see? I was so busy listenin' to Miaka screamin' and beggin' me not to hurt that fuckhead that I started thinkin' wrong. I started thinkin' that—"

"Wait! Miaka tried to stop you from getting in a fight with m…him?"

He blew out an impatient breath. "Nah, man, we were already in the _middle_ of the fuckin' fight! Fucker kept comin' at me his goddamn sticks, but fer some reason, the tessen started workin' again, an' I almost fried the bastard! I was gettin' the upper hand, and that's when she started with the cryin' shit."

The memories suddenly begin pouring in, and I sink to my knees under their force.

_Lashing out with the nanchakus, enjoying the vicious crack as they connect with the metal fan. Flames suddenly shooting out of nowhere, forcing me to leap up and kick over, twisting my body out of their reach before landing hard on my hands and knees. Drawing in ragged gasps of breath; the rage bitter in my mouth as I realize that he has me now, because I'm too winded to pull that same move again.  
_

_A female voice screams,_ Tasuki, STOP!

I blink and shudder, returning to reality as the memory releases me. Didn't she understand what she was asking of him in that moment? Everyone knows that you don't distract a man in the middle of a life-or-death fight! You sure as hell don't tell him to stop—not unless you _want_ him to lose. Everyone in the world knows that.

But then again, she's not from my world.

"Genrou, she…she's not from Konan. She might not've understood what she was saying; at least, I'm pretty sure that she didn't mean for you to get hurt…" I remember the accusation he had made earlier, "…to spare him, or anyone else."

Silence. Silence and darkness, contained and quiet, making me feel as if I'm in the room alone. But finally I hear a deep sigh.

"Nah, you're right. What I said before… Miaka ain't like that. I know she wasn't thinkin' that it was fine for me to get hurt. But here's the thing: she wasn't thinkin' about me at all."

Because she was too busy worrying about me. Another memory forces its way into my mind, this one sharp and complete, unclouded by any drug. Stones falling in the Temple of Seiryuu. Miaka calling for Yui as Chichiri shouts for us to escape through his hat. A blast from Nakago rips Chichiri's mask away, and yet his shouts continue to be ignored as Miaka keeps pleading with Yui; another blast, and another, the last one driving Chichiri to his knees as he desperately holds open the portal for us. Pain flashes across his scarred features, and still Miaka doesn't notice, all of her attention focused only on Yui.

It's all so clear now. Miaka loves who she loves—me, Yui—and she's willing to do anything for us, up to and including sacrificing herself. But now I realize the dark side of that kind of single-minded devotion: for the sake of her beloved, she's also willing to sacrifice those who are sworn to protect her.

Chichiri. Tasuki. And if Hotohori had held back with me, then him as well. They might all now be dead by my hand.

"Stupid, ain't it?"

It takes me a second to realize that he's answering his own thoughts instead of mine.

"It don't matter what Miaka was thinkin'; there's no excuse for havin' my head up my ass. Puttin' the tessen away was the dumbest move I ever pulled. Guess I bought into the hype around that asshole, and thought that there'd be enough Suzaku warrior left in his brain to put down his sticks and fight me like a man. Or maybe I just wanted to bash his face in front of her. But either way, I wasn't thinkin' straight. The boss taught us better, right? 'Never lower your guard till yer enemy is dead!' But I went ahead and sheathed the tessen, and challenged him to fight me hand to hand, no weapons or nothin'. Not two seconds later, BAM! He hit me with those damn sticks, an' it was all downhill from there."

"No!" I'm choking, almost gagging. "I didn't—I _couldn't_—"

Nanchakus are a distance weapon, able to strike an opponent from a point far out of reach of his arms. To attack an unarmed man during a battle—there is no greater dishonor for a warrior.

Except to attack a helpless girl.

The darkness presses in, swirling around me. I'm more than scared; I'm _terrified_—of what I did, of what I became—and a whimper escapes my lips, because the most frightening thing for me is to be left alone to die in the darkness—

A warm hand grips mine again, and I grab onto it helplessly.

"Aniki…you all right?"

I press his hand to my forehead so that he can feel me nod, since I can't trust my voice to answer just yet.

"Aniki, what did you mean when you said that you couldn't…what?"

No help for it: I'm going to have to speak up. My voice is raspy but surprisingly steady as I lie to him with as much sincerity as I can muster.

"I couldn't…I _can't_…I can't believe it. That a Suzaku warrior would ever—"

"Beat the livin' shit outta an unarmed man? Dishonor himself in combat fer the sake of an easy win? I couldn't believe it either, which prob'ly made me too surprised to fall down when he first hit me in the chest. But right after that, he made me into a believer real quick."

He goes on describing the battle between us, painting in every detail until I think I'm going to scream. His words are breaking through the barrier around my memories, dragging them from soft oblivion into the harsh, unforgiving glare of reality.

"And then he got me down on the ground, and he put his foot on me—"

—_Grinding my heel into his spine, feeling him arch up against me, struggling to get up—_

"And I heard the air whistling as those damn sticks came flyin' down and bam!"

_The satisfying crack as the nanchakus hit muscle and bone—_

"And he kept on beatin' me and beatin' me, like I was nothin' more than an animal, some stray dog in the street—"

_His blood flies up and spatters my face, and something savage inside of me exults in the feeling of triumphal vengeance, because how dare he protect her, how dare he think that he's the one to stand between her and mortal danger, how _dare_ he take _my_ place?_

Finally I know—I _know._ Whatever powers the kodoku might have had, it didn't create those dark feelings of jealousy and possessiveness. Sure, it played on them and used them, but in the end, those feelings were mine.

I, Tamahome, wanted Tasuki dead at that moment, because he stood between me and Miaka.

I can't seem to stop my shuddering; it's as if the mattress itself is shaking beneath my hands. But then I realize that the mattress really _is_ shaking but not because of me. He's fallen silent, the battle finished in his mind but raging on in his body.

"Genrou?"

"Cold, aniki. I just got a ch-chill."

I reach out and find him; his skin is damp and clammy now that he's moved into the chilled part of his fever state. I pile the blankets around him, tucking them in behind his neck.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Y-yeah, I'm fine."

He's lying to me. Without pausing to think, I kick off my slippers and slide behind him under the blankets, trying to absorb his shivers into myself and maybe give him some body heat as well. This is what I always do for Yuiren when she gets fever chills.

It isn't until his shudders taper off that I stop to think about what I've done. But it's too late; I can feel him growing tense against me.

"Aniki."

I brace myself for his anger, knowing that I have no explanation or excuse. "Yeah?"

"Do ya…think less of me? After what I just told ya, about the way I got beaten?"

"No! No, why would I?"

Some of the tension leaves his body. "I dunno. Seems like the rest of them ain't so… I mean, I know I matter in a way, 'cause I'm Tasuki, an' they need me for their fuckin' summoning ceremony. But I think that's all that matters to them—my seishi role, not me."

I frown, remembering Nuriko's compassion towards Tasuki, Mitsukake's tireless tending of his wounds. "What makes you think that?"

"The way they acted when he showed up at the palace. I dunno if I told you 'bout that. That bastard came back to Konan, all ready to kill Miaka, but Hotohori got him with his sword first. Then Miaka ran up and cried her eyes out, an' that broke the kodoku spell. An' Mitsuskake healed him, so everything was absolutely fuckin' wonderful.

"Then it was all hurray, and let's have a party, 'cause Tama-fuckin-home's back, an' everything's forgiven, 'cause all he did was nearly kill Tasuki, so no real harm done, right?"

I can see it again: the falling rain, the arms reaching out to embrace me. The lonely, battered figure standing forgotten on the edge of the crowd. My face heats once again in shame; how can I tell him he's wrong?

"That's not the only thing, though. Guess how many times Miaka came to visit me after I got my ass kicked in front of her?"

I have no idea. "Only once?"

"Nope, too high. Try again." His attempt at humor fails to disguise his bitterness. "Can't say I blame her, though. I mean, who wants to look at some banged-up loser?"

I start to protest, but he cuts me off. "Nah, don't bother, aniki. Yeah, there's prob'ly a buncha reasons we can both come up with fer the way they all forgot about me, but it don't change the facts. I don't belong with 'em. I'm not really part of 'em. That's why I came back here."

Now I understand, _really_ understand. Nakago's plan is still working. Maybe he failed at getting me to kill Tasuki or Tasuki to kill me, but this is the next best thing. Drive us apart, make us feel unworthy to be Suzaku warriors. Make us feel like we don't belong.

Make him feel the way I felt when the village boys would throw stones at me and call me "Obake-chan."

Somehow, this seems like the worst thing of all, and the words come pouring out of me, thoughtless, jumbled, falling over one another.

"Tasuki, listen, that's not right. You do belong with them; you _are_ part of them. Just as much as…him, and maybe more. Without you, Miaka would be dead, and maybe Chichiri as well. You never gave up, and you fought to the end. If you're not a true Suzaku warrior, then no one is. And if they forgot you today, it was just that too much was happening too fast. Everyone was confused, the rain made things blur together… but you matter to them, I know that you do!"

Suddenly, he pushes away from me, and I hear his gasp of pain from the violent move. I put out a hand to find him, but he strikes it away.

"Genrou, what—"

"Don't give me that shit!" His voice is hoarse. "'Tasuki' is what you said just now—since when did you start callin' me that? An' I never said anything about the rain, so how the fuck did you know about it?"

Another beat, and then—

"Who the fuck are you?"

My breathing stops. "Nobody," I choke. "Nobody."

"Don't you fuckin' tell me, 'Nobody'! I ain't here talkin' to myself, an' I ain't goin' crazy, so fer the last time—who are you?"

"A friend. I'm just…a friend."

Stupid answer, I know, so I'm not surprised when he growls in frustration, the growl turning into a groan. I can hear everything in his voice: pain, frustration, and…fear. The same fear as mine.

Just like that, I know what he needs, the way I know what Yuiren needs when she cries in the night. I find him in the darkness and pull him into me once again, murmuring mindless, wordless sounds of comfort. I can feel him tensing to strike, so I brace myself for his blows, and then…

Nothing. He slumps against me as if defeated, his muscles trembling. I move my face close to his cheek, words finally forming in my crooning. "Don't worry," I whisper. "Just sleep. Don't think about anything at all."

He doesn't reply, not even to argue, and I know why he's holding back. He doesn't want the true answer to his question. Neither of us does.

So here we are in this place together, caught between knowledge and need, where the brain tells us one reality but the body chooses another. We lie together as close as brothers, accepting the only truth that matters: the animal need for comfort, for the warmth of a body curled next to one's own.

I wait and listen as his breathing grows slower and deeper, and I know that he's finally asleep. Matching my breaths to his, I relax against him, the soft darkness covering us, concealing our secret pain.

* * *

"Tamahome." 

The voice is soft, barely above a murmur. I sleepily tighten my arms around the body before me, moving my face deeper into the soft hair, nestling into the warm angle between neck and shoulder.

"Tamahome." The voice is firmer now, and a strong hand grips my shoulder. My eyes fly open, taking in the unfamiliar features of the room bathed in golden lamplight.

Lamplight. That means….

I loosen my hold and turn my body, staring up to meet the cool blue gaze of Mitsukake. My mind is still befuddled by sleep, so instead of being embarrassed, I'm resentful of his interruption.

_Leave us alone; let us sleep in peace. _

It isn't until I see Chichiri's smiling mask at Mitsukake's shoulder that reality sets in, and I scramble off the bed. But even in my self-conscious haste, I take care to move gently, so as to keep from waking him. _He's had a hard time; he needs his rest_. Shivering, I pull on my shoes, trying not to think about how I already miss his warmth.

Chichiri steps back and beckons me to join him in the other part of the room, Mitsukake a silent presence beside him.

"I take it that all went well," he says, his voice soft and serious instead of his usual lilting chirp.

"Yeah." What else can I say?

Mitsukake makes a gesture towards the screen. "But the lamp and side table are broken because…?"

"An accident." It occurs to me that my curt replies might be taken as signs of resentment, and I wouldn't want them to think that I— To hell with it. I'm sick of being on the defensive.

"You were gone a long time." I fling the accusation at Mitsukake.

"Only as long as necessary," he replies.

"Necessary for what?"

He holds up a small, steaming teapot. "The infusion, of course." His expression is just bland enough to rouse my suspicions.

"Well, while you were taking your time, Genrou was in a lot of pain, and—"

"Genrou?"

"Tasuki's bandit name," Mitsukake informs Chichiri, then turns his attention back to me.

"So you're on good terms with Tasuki now?"

"No. He was delirious and thought I was his aniki. He never realized…" I pause, suddenly unsure of the truth, of what exactly passed between us tonight. There's one thing I know for certain, though.

"You can't tell him." My voice is sharp, lacking the respectful tone I would normally use with the senior seishi.

But as usual, Chichiri doesn't take offense. "We won't," he answers mildly, drawing a lifted eyebrow from Mitsukake.

There's an awkward silence, during which time I realize that I'm unconsciously craning my neck to catch a last glimpse of Tasuki sleeping behind his screen. I feel Chichiri's and Mitsukake's eyes on me, and my face heats.

"Are you…are you going to give him the medicine now?" Stupid question, but I can't think of anything else to say.

"No," Mitsukake replies, surprising me. "His fever seems to be down, and he's sleeping easily, so I won't disturb him. I don't know what you did, Tamahome, but whatever it was, it seems to have worked fairly well."

I mumble something, I don't know what, then mutter goodnight and make my escape from his room. I'm irritated by the way Chichiri and Mitsukake were looking at me. Oh, their expressions were completely serious, but I can feel the smiles behind my back, if that makes any sense. At any rate, I don't feel like explaining anything to them, because they don't understand…

…or maybe because they do.

I look up into the sky, shivering in the cool night air. The clouds are breaking up, revealing stars piercing the darkness, and it seems to me that every one of them is shining a thin ray of light into my head, exposing my innermost thoughts.

Tomorrow, I'll see him again. Tomorrow, I'll act as if it's the first time that we've met. We'll start over, and what we become—friends, enemies, reluctant comrades—will be up to the gods, and Tasuki's own capacity for forgiveness.

No matter what happens, I'll never let him see what he's done to me this night: the way that he's stripped away my illusions and opened my eyes. He's made me see the evil that I'm capable of, and my ignorance in behaving as if there's nothing more important than mine and Miaka's love. It's not that I love Miaka any less; well, not really. What's changed is a new understanding that there are other people in the world—people we can't allow ourselves to forget, whose well-being we must consider as important as our own. Otherwise, our love will turn into a blood sacrifice of our friends, as it had just two days ago.

He could've died that night. I could've killed him, and not only would that have destroyed our chance to summon Suzaku, but…I would never have known him. Sounds stupid, almost embarrassing—but I can't help shuddering at what I almost lost.

The wind gusts suddenly, striking me in the face and forcing the moisture out of my eyes. I brush the drops from my face impatiently, ducking my head as I move off towards my room. But no matter how quickly I move, I can't escape the irony.

I attacked him. I injured him. I made him feel shame and pain. Yet he's managed to wound me more deeply than I ever wounded him.

The difference is that unlike him, I can never show my wounds in the light of day. I'll keep them hidden, secret, revealed only to the night and the cold, distant light of the stars

_The End_

* * *

Thank you for reading. Warm appreciation to those of you who have waited patiently for the last chapter of this story; I apologize for the extended delay. To the reviewers, I offer my special thanks. Site rules do not permit me to acknowledge you individually, but each one of you has my deepest gratitude for your generosity. I am indebted to you all. 

Aenisses 6-December-2005


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